The language that he reads is esoteric;
Not hieroglyphs, yet symbols of high art;
Pages of black code that proffer colour,
Transcending each mathematical part.
Supple fingers play, they feel for spaces
To breathe within the dense, obscure inversions.
His hands form shapes, weaving as they translate
Chromatic patterns, pauses and progressions.

The language that I hear is also strange,
Warm vibrations, paradoxically chill,
Have power to engulf the stoic’s senses,
Imparting peace with their hypnotic will.
Languids fizzle, rumble; chorus reeds roar!
The ancient art, an act of sacrifice
Carried helpless by Victorian echoes,
Re-echoing until the walls suffice.

The language that she speaks is stranger still;
Those weakened signals which in part connect.
Words from her stroke-afflicted mouth, slur;
In tongues she talks, a broken dialect.
Now a stranger’s hands play, her substitute
Translating at the console both adore.
Stray manuscripts, half-thumbed, behind him root;
Beside them, those soft leather shoes she wore.

by Neil Young

Comments (1)

Music maths visions at words gone play catching breezes lasting echos dreams a soft graceful foot wrapped up in loves merciful grasp...wonderfull...thank you..iip